I let out a pained breath and turned away, my trembling fingers running over the dusty red paint. I wondered if this old thing still ran. If not, we should try to get it fixed. I’d add that to the list.

I walked over to the area on the far wall where three long folding tables had been set up. Here was all the food they’d collected from neighbors, items not just lining the tops, but sitting on the floor beneath as well. Boxes of crackers, pasta, lentils, rice, peanut butter… And several pieces of paper were tacked up on the wall above, the names of each person taking part in the rationing of this food listed, including allergies and other pertinent information. They’d done well here. The care and the love and the goodwill was obvious everywhere I turned.

A ladder still stood propped beneath the loft, and I gave it a shake, determining that it was still sturdy before climbing to the top. I moved on my knees over to the window where I brought my head back in surprise. Well, holy shit.

My old things were still here. Books were scattered on the floor, covered in a thick layer of dust. I moved one aside and read the titles, and then sat there with them on my knees as I shifted back through time to the boy I’d been. I’d loved knowledge, loved gathering information that would come in handy when I was running Honey Hill. Hosea had spoken of the now useful skills and attributes I’d gathered while making all kinds of mistakes and surviving the consequences of my own poor choices. But sitting there, staring down at those books, made me wonder if my grandfather had also had those qualities because he’d suffered hardships as well—perhaps of his own making, perhaps not. Maybe a combination of the two. Perhaps that kind of grit and fortitude could only be gathered after you’d hit rock bottom and managed to climb out, one foothold at a time.

A breeze of peace blew through me as I set the books aside, glancing at the folder underneath. I frowned at the unfamiliar item as I picked it up. But when I opened it, my heart lurched. It was Emily’s folder and by the date written on the inside flap, I saw it was from the year I’d moved to my uncle’s house. Had it been before? Or after? It could have been either since I’d stopped coming up here entirely in the wake of my mother’s death.